You The Living
by Ledgers
Summary: He doesn't know whether he is dreaming, if he is imagining the sorrow choking him up, wrapping its fingers around his throat and squeezing tight. If the strangled sob emerging past his lips is real. And it isn't his own sadness that he feels, but that doesn't make it any less painful.


**Title** \- You The Living

 **Genre** \- Romance/Drama?

 **Summary** \- He doesn't know whether he is dreaming, if he is imagining the sorrow choking him up, wrapping its fingers around his throat and squeezing tight. If the strangled sob emerging past his lips is real. _And it isn't his own sadness that he feels, but that doesn't make it any less painful._ Davy Jones/OMC

 **A/N** \- I don't really know why I wrote this, but I'm glad I did. If it wasn't for this story, I never would've found my way back into writing.

* * *

 _And what about all the good I have in my heart_ _– does it mean anything?_ _–_ _ **Saul Bellow**_

* * *

He is drowning from the inside. Water floods his mouth and spills into his lungs. Desperation has him gasping for air as he is pulled under the current.

A helpless scream bubbling forth from his lips, blue eyes widening as terror tears through the cavity of his panicked heart. He is choking on the salt in the back of his throat, the water that is filling his chest, and no matter how hard he swims, how much he struggles, he is being drowned in the deep of the Caribbean sea, drowned in dark waters with his chest constricting _–_

 _He can't breathe and he is so afraid, because he just can't die alone, he just can't, he fucking can not–!_

 _–_ and then he is coughing up mouthfuls of water on the deck of a ship. The last of the water splatters onto the floorboards with a gurgle from his throat, his own breaths sounding loud in his ears, and he uses his arm to push himself up with the wet strands of his hair clinging to his skin. His muscles start to cramp, and he feels so wretched, so miserable, with the taste of salt burning in his throat. Slowly, the reality of him still being alive and not drowning in the ocean is sinking in and, when he has to press the heel of his palm to his eyelids, the hands pulling him up are as shocking as the guttural voice in his ear.

"What a sad hand life has given to you." The hands covering his eyes curl into fists. Water trickles behind the hollow of his ear and down his neck. "I don't have to ask if you fear death. _You were screaming loud enough."_

And he has heard stories of a ship, of the _Flying Dutchman._ A ship that collects the souls of drowned sailors from sunken ships and could sail the seven seas in less than seven days. Stories that traveled from the mouths of rum soaked sailors, over the crashing of waves and to the shore. As a child, the stories of Davy Jones instilled fear into his heart and had him curl into a ball underneath his blanket at night. To be kneeling at the man's feet has his heart beating hard and fast against his ribcage.

"I haven't had a soul _young_ as you on my ship," The dark chuckle given to him sends a shiver down his spine. "a hundred years is only a blink for _you._ What's your name?"

He doesn't answer. He _can't,_ his throat feels too tight and his breathing too erratic. Pushing down his fear doesn't help and the skin around his eyes is sore from the water. He can't face the man standing in front of him, not until a hand suddenly closes around his throat, brutally forcing the air out of his lungs, and his fingers dig into the flimsy material of Jones' coat as the man hauls him off his feet. "Tis not wise to be trying my patience, _lad."_

"I'm–"

When Luke does look at him, he doesn't look at the nauseating tentacles of his beard, nor does he look at the mottled skin of his face, but into the eyes that are as blue as the sea. He watches, transfixed, as the swirling waters behind those eyes wash over him, and make him feel like he is drowning all over again. The words tumble from his lips before he can think. _"_ _Luke."_ He will let anything fall from his mouth if it means he will live. Anything to breathe again. He will beg for his life if he has to. "My name is Luke." _Just let me go..._

The hand holding his throat tightens. For a second he feels the coldness of a tentacle slide along his jaw, wet and slippery against his own skin. A soft whimper, and then he gathers all the resolve he is capable of and gazes back at Jones. He swallows hard, throat working convulsively and Jones smiles at him. An ugly smile on a lipless mouth that shows him rows of yellowed teeth.

With a grunt, he lands on the scuffed flooring of the deck, gasping for air as Jones turns away. The dull thud reverberates off the floor and declares his control over the ship. As if on command, the men close in on him, and he is speechless at the sight of them; of the bodies covered in sea life and the smell of rotting fish coming from them. They are not men, are less than human, spitting at him and showing their sharpened teeth. They pull him back on his feet and when they do he is shaking so hard that he has to hold onto the railing for support.

"You better familiarize yourself with the concept of dying, _Mr. Luke,"_ Jones's voice is heavy with contempt from where he is watching Luke shake. The tentacles below his face ripple as a mocking smirk forms on his lips. The crewmens amusement comes in the form of violent snarls and sneers. Luke's stomach turns. "you'll be begging me for it."

He hunches over then, vomiting onto the sodden floorboards.

* * *

He imagines waking up on the _Black Pearl,_ imagines black sails and smooth, dark wood under his fingers. He imagines Jack looking down at him with his smirk and the beads in his braids dancing with every step of his, and imagines him with his fluid hips and articulate hand motions when he talks.

And he imagines the sea filling his lungs and choking for breath underwater. He imagines drowning, because it is Jack's fault he nearly did drown.

* * *

He is the youngest of the men, with dirty blonde hair and narrowed blue eyes that convey his emotions better than his face does. He is short, and he doesn't fit in. His freckled skin is tanned from the sun. The clothes handed to him are worn out and too large for him.

Luke has not seen the sun in a long time.

He scrubs the floors, helps where he is needed and scrubs the floor clean of blood again later. He picks himself up with the grit of sand in his teeth and nurses his own wounds. He doesn't talk to the men and they don't talk to him. There is an order on this ship he has not figured out, and the ship's Bosun is watching for Luke to slip up and give him a reason to scrub his own blood off the floor. Luke has seen him cut through flesh, from waist to shoulders, and had to look away when the sight of blood and ragged flesh became too much for him. Jimmy Legs is known for his sadistic streak. His lashes mark the backs of all the men– save for Luke's own. He still hasn't deserved such punishment, but the Bosun is breathing down his neck and eyeing him with something close to killing intent.

Luke isn't keen on finding out for himself if the lashes _hurt_ as much as they _bleed,_ and if he ever escapes he is going to beat the life out of Jack.

* * *

He can't help but clutch at the Captain's arm when the ship dives underwater. He can't help the panic welling up in his throat, or the panicked shout leaving his mouth as the ship sinks deeper and deeper.

He has seen Jones smile at him when he was choking for breath after he pulled him out of the water, when his face was bruised from the beating he took on his third night for asking a question he should not have asked, and he is smiles at Luke when he notices his stiff back and the clenched hand on his arm.

"Afraid of drowning, are you, Mr. Luke?" Jones' sea changed hand comes to rest on his arm, the tentacle that is his index finger curling around his bicep. Luke visibly flinches, but he doesn't move, instead he squeezes his eyes shut as the water crashes over them– and he would have been swept off his feet if it wasn't for Jones' hand anchoring him to the deck, his fingers digging painfully into his skin. He wants to hold his breath, swim back up to the surface and _just breathe,_ but then he sucks in a deep breath and feels a wave of relief crash over him. At his side, Jones lets out an amused snort.

His clothes are still drenched when the ship reemerges from the sea and his hair is dripping wet, but he is alive, he can breathe underwater, and that is all that matters to him.

* * *

In his nightmarish nights of sleep he will cry, curl his arms around his stomach and rub his cheek against grubby kneecaps when the tears start to well up, his sobs stifled with his face buried in his pillow.

If he has to cry and tear at the flesh of the face that is so much like his father's, it is not because he misses the man and can't stand seeing him in his dreams, but _because he doesn't want to look like him._

He has seen his father once, when he was a boy aged twelve. He recognized him by the shape of his mouth and the pale blue eyes that had looked at him with a complete air of indifference. He had _known_ who he was, had recognized Luke as Luke had recognized him. He must have looked like a version of his father's younger self; shorter and rougher than he had been, but still. He has his father's mouth. His eyes and full lips and his dirty blonde hair; Luke inherited that from him. And after he had waved at his father from afar at the docks of Padres, he never saw him again.

From there on the word _family_ held no real meaning for him. The only thing that _family_ made him think of was abandonment. That is, until Jack Sparrow walked into his life and turned it upside down.

It was Jack who took him onto the Black Pearl. The pirate whose tales were known throughout the Caribbean had Luke answer his personal requests, running messages and bringing him rum whenever he asked for it. They developed a bizarre friendship, with Jack teaching him how to navigate through turbulent seas and, when Luke got older and on his more drunken nights, how to appreciate the taste of rum.

Luke never thought of Jack as a father figure, but if anyone ever came close, it was him.

* * *

Hypothermia starts off slow; going through layers of fabric and through the skin, into vital organs and deeper into the body's core, slowing down all bodily functions. He will start to shake, his pulse will start to throb slower until he can't feel the life slipping from him and his heart will stop beating. It's a slow death. He will never know.

Trembling under the thin material of his blanket, he watches the sun come up, soaking up the warmth on his face with his head leaned back. His respiration sounds strained, shallow breaths leaving his lips as his hands pull the blanket tighter around his shoulders. The men aren't awake at this time and all through the night Luke's tremors have gone unnoticed. Their bodies don't feel the cold as intensely as his does. His clothes are always wet from being underwater and his dark complexion has paled from the hypothermia under his skin. The tremors shake every bone in his body. He doesn't know if he will get better. It doesn't feel like he will.

* * *

They will take the men from the wrecks of sunken ships, but not women or children. Luke doesn't know why their lives are more precious than the lives of men, or why the Captain will either leave them behind on the vessel or have his men bring them ashore. It doesn't make sense to him and when he asks Maccus his only answer is a blank stare, as if the man doesn't know the answer for himself.

* * *

He stays behind at the boat. The island they have set foot on to resupply their water isn't on the charts Luke used to study and he doesn't recognize it from Jack's stories. It is secluded, with black sand and neck breaking cliffs that create long shadows on the beach. Under the scent of salt from the waves crashing on shore, he can smell the water springs at his back.

He missed this. Being able to plant his feet in the sand and feel the sun shine on his skin. Luke pushes strands of blonde hair out of his eyes as he leans back against the boat's frame, drops of sweat dotting his skin. He missed the feeling of sand running through his fingers.

How terrible it must be to only be able to feel this every ten years. No matter how much Luke loves being at sea, he wouldn't be able to stand it. The thought makes his heart swell with pity for the Captain. He can't leave the ship, can only watch the sun come up from afar and feel only a fraction of its warmth on his skin. The _Dutchman_ is Davy Jones' own Locker.

He can suddenly smell damp earth and a heaviness in the air, the waves that are spilling onto shore and touching his feet smelling of something half-forgotten. There is a storm coming, like nothing he has ever seen.

* * *

He remembers his mother's smiling face when she told him that a baby is coming. It's all she ever talked about from that moment on, all that she saw. Those blue eyes that used to look at Luke with paternal pride instead would be focused on her belly, her mouth full of happiness whenever she talked about _it._

He remembers how hard he cried, a boy of nine, when his mother used the last of her strength to give birth to his baby sister. How he had yelled at her and pleaded with _"Mama, come back."_ and _"I'm scared. I'm so scared. Help me, Mama. Help me."_ How he held the thing to his chest as it whined and cried, standing outside of the orphanage with his arms full of infant, turned his back and _ran._

And Luke remembers how alone he had felt. His father left him. His mother left him. His sister left him. He had been too young to be on his own. It was a dark word he lived in, a world full of loneliness and nothing, and he was alone in it.

Is his sister still alive? Does she know that she has a brother? Would she recognize him if she ever saw him? Would he recognize her? Did she grow to look like their mother, just as Luke had grown up to look like his father?

Luke doesn't know. He doesn't think he will ever know. The past is the past, and there is nothing he can do but move on. Forget. The memories of his childhood are nothing he wants to remember.

He is pulled out of his thoughts when he hears the sound of the Captain come up behind him, his foot dragging harshly against the decaying floor, but he doesn't move. Nighttime has fallen over the ship and the men have all submitted to sleep. Standing at the helm with his eyes gazing up at the stars, Luke wants to be alone with his thoughts.

"Mr. Luke." He doesn't look at the man, but moves his head to the side to show him he is listening. "What are ye doing awake?"

"Thinking."

"And what could you be thinking of this late at night?" His tone is cool, as if he already knows what he has been thinking of, and Luke turns to face him with furrowed brows. Jones stands with his back tensed and face blank, the tentacles of his beard rippling with his movements. He comes to stand next to Luke, looking down at him with his blue eyes narrowed, and Luke notes absentmindedly that he barely reaches the man's chin. "Is it escaping my ship you are thinking of?" A laugh, and his lips pull into a pleased smirk. "Are the thoughts of what I could have my crew do to you keeping you awake?"

Luke grimaces and shakes his head at him. "No. I was thinking about the past." And he's been thinking too much, lately. Of Jack and the Black Pearl, of his father, and of how his own live is going to end. Of Davy Jones. _He is trying to understand him, but the man is like an island, just as desolate and hard to reach._

"Past?" The man's smirk turns into a tight lipped frown, his expression turning from confused to contempt in a matter of seconds. Luke averts his eyes, a hand rubbing the back of his neck.

"I felt... nostalgic... I keep thinking about all the things I would change if I could go back." He shrugs and looks back up at the black nights sky, if only not to have to look at the disdain on Jones' face. It is getting colder and he is starting to shiver. "Do _you_ ever think about that? The things you would change?"

Belatedly, he realizes how thoughtless that was. He knows of the tragic story to the man's past. He didn't mean to dig up those memories.

Luke can feel the shame burning in his face. He wants to apologize, hands clenching and unclenching at his side. He wants to, but when he notices the lost expression in Jones' eyes, he suddenly can't. For a moment the man seems to be lost in the past, reliving a part of his own live that he would change if only he could, and he looks so vulnerable, so utterly lost. It is that vulnerability that Luke has to close his eyes on.

"There is nothing."

* * *

The wounds bleed so red, spilling over his skin as the pain cuts through his back. He feels it in every synapse and nerve of him, so intense that his teeth have bitten _through_ his lower lip. There is a low whistle, Jimmy Legs holding the whip negligently in his hand.

"Yer a tough lad, I'll give you that. But you'll scream out of that impertinent mouth of yours when I'm done with you." Luke glares at him, his mouth shaping itself into a scowl. He can feel the mocking eyes of the crew on him, can hear their snickers. A puff of breath escapes his lips, and then he's grinning, all bloody teeth and arrogance. He could be bleeding, his bones could be broken and he could be smashed to a pulp, but he would still call the man a bastard to his face if he fucking wanted to. _He already has._

The pain flooding through him with the fourth lash is too much. He collapses onto the floor in a glossy pool of his own blood, breathing harshly through his mouth. _And he wants to scream and beg for the pain to end, to crawl into his bunk and stop the blood from flowing. He wants to cry for help. He wants–_

But he doesn't scream, couldn't have screamed if he wanted to. When the fifth lash connects with his skin, he is out cold.

* * *

He doesn't heal. There is never time for Luke to bandage the wounds on his back. He is being punished whether he deserves it or not. Jimmy Legs takes pleasure in _deepening_ the marks and leaving him to bleed out on the deck. On a good night he will find himself slumped over Maccus' shoulder and being none too gently laid onto his bunk. And on bad nights he will wake up with dried blood on his chest and hands from where he has been lying in his own blood, stumbling to his bunk on his own.

He is in so much pain that he doesn't notice the rain falling onto his skin– not until he sees Jones' eyes drinking in the sight of him; bleeding, bruised and shaking from the blood loss and the pain. Those cerulean eyes have darkened with, he guesses, arousal at the jagged lines along his spine, so deep that bone can be seen beneath the mess of ragged flesh.

And Luke has walked the thin line between pleasure and pain, knows how fast you can lose sight of what is what.

He tilts back his head to let the rain wash away all the filth and blood and sweat, holding the Captain's gaze as he bares the smooth expanse of his stomach to him, the pattern the rain creates on his skin, lips parting into half a smile. He doesn't have much experience with this and it seems desperate more than it seems seductive. A pink flicker of tongue over his lip and he runs a hand through his wet hair. The Captain's lips quirk above the sinuous curve of his beard, the tentacle on his hand beckoning for him to come closer.

He and Jones both know why he is doing this. If giving himself to him will lessen the pain, Luke will do it. He will do anything, really.

* * *

As the tentacles trace over his back, he can feel the coldness crawl into his warm skin. They map out his body through touch alone, as if Jones' is trying to figure him out through the gaps between his ribs and the curve of his spine, as if to see if the exterior, the tensed muscles and the frown on his face, expresses the interior.

"You must be _desperate,"_ Jones' voice brushes over the shell of his ear as a tentacle winds itself around his neck and across his collar bone. "to give up your body," He shudders at the feeling of a sucker pulling at the skin of his chest, moving down to close over a nipple and pull at it. His blood starts to pump faster through his veins and he can feel the flush spreading across his cheeks, can smell the tobacco on the Captain's breath and, below that, the scent of lust as strong and warm he knows it. "all to save yerself from my Bosun's touch."

His legs start to tremble when he feels Jones stroke the inside of his thigh and he has to force himself to be still as the tentacle that is Jones' index finger squeezes his cock. "You– _ah!"_

There's a low chuckle, and then he can feel Jones' claw on his back, heavy as an anchor and pushing him forward to lie on the decaying wood of his desk. His eyes widen, and for a second he thinks he can't do this, panic filling his lungs and choking the air out of him in harsh, audible breaths. _You can do this. It's just sex._ A tentacle slides over his jaw, forcing his head back to look at Jones' face. The panic must have been visible in Luke's eyes, for his lips curl up into a amused smile.

"You're a virgin." The statement has Luke swallow down his apprehension and grin up at him haughtily. The tentacle around his cock begins to slowly stroke him, _back and forth,_ set to a maddening tempo, and it causes a shameful moan to spill from his lips. It shouldn't feel this good to be touched . He shouldn't want to be touched, but the pleasure in his groin grows out of control when Jones' wraps his full hand around his length and squeezes again. The tentacle on his hand is between Luke's legs, circling the puckered muscle of his ass. His breath stops at just how _tight_ it feels.

"N– no," He lies through clenched teeth, shaking his head as the pressure builds. "'m not–!"

He arches his body into the tentacle sliding into him, letting out a pained cry as Jones slides out of him and back in. _"_ _Aren't you?_ _"_ There is so much pain and that sensitive muscle convulses as the tentacle curls _inside of him._ Luke is writhing and thrashing with heavy breaths dragging from his throat, and a second tentacle is sliding inside to spread him wider. "You're a terrible _liar."_ He focuses on the hand on his cock, on the near painful strokes over the head of his erection, red and swollen and glistening with that clear liquid of his that leaks over Jones' closed fist around him.

 _"_ _Ngh...Captain–!"_

His reaction is fast, Luke is picked up and thrown onto his back in the span of a heartbeat, back screaming in protest. His eyes find Jones' own, of the darkest blue, looking at Luke's flushed skin and his opened mouth, the sweaty hands clutching at the desk and the blonde hair falling into his half lidded eyes. He looks at him with something akin to longing, and when the the tentacles thrust into him Luke clenches tightly around them.

The sensation is so intense, so _raw,_ he is both moaning and pleading for Jones to stop. "Sto– _hah...hah..._ _"_ He can't control himself, the sounds leaving his mouth lost in the slick, wet strokes of the hand on his cock. The man has forced himself _inside_ of him, and Luke doesn't know if he can stand it until he screams and chokes as Jones slams into him and fills him up so _deep_ , he can feel it in every sinew and every part of him. Jones is splitting him in half, stripping him bare and it feels so good, the pleasure flooding through his body feels so intense. He moves his hips to give him a better angle, to feel him push in harder, faster, and lets his head fall back to unabashedly grunts in time with his thrusts.

"Yer begging me to stop, but you're grinding your hips into me on your own." His voice is tauntingly close to Luke's mouth and the slippery slide of that cock in and out of him suddenly pushes him into climaxing. He can feel himself twitch inside of Jones' hand, spilling into it with a loud moan and collapsing onto the desk. His eyes stare at the darkness of his Jones' mouth, lips parting as the man rams into him and then comes with a guttural groan, filling him with wave after wave of come. Luke can feel it drip out of him and pool between his thighs, sticky and warm against his skin.

In the end they are both panting, with Luke slipping into the depths of unconsciousness when he feels the cold fingers in his hair, brushing through damp blonde strands. It's an utterly subconscious gesture, he thinks, the man doesn't even know he's doing it until Luke's slowed breathing pulls him out if it.

* * *

There are red, circular marks where the tentacles came in contact with his skin; on his back and his thighs, down his stomach and around his neck. Jones has _marked_ him as his, the marks on his body visible for the crew to see. He kept his promise to protect him, and Luke is grateful for the ache between his legs, the feeling of being split in half and put back together. The incredulous stare the Bosun gives him when he sees him with the marks of the Captain makes the pain worth it.

The punishments stop. The wounds on his back slowly start to heal. Luke is trusted to do watches at night and Maccus explains to him the rules to Liar's dice. He doesn't panic anymore when the ship descends underwater, and if he is scrubbing blood off the ship's deck, it isn't his.

* * *

The William Turner standing in front of him is as credulous as he is in Jack's stories. If Jack hadn't told Luke about the pirate in Will's blood, he wouldn't believe it to be him. That Will has lived his life on land and not at sea is pronounced in the way he loses his balance as the ship falls over waves and the graceless way he holds himself. A man like that doesn't belong on a ship.

The quest he is on to save his future bride to be was given to him by none other than Jack Sparrow. Will seems to trust Jack blindly, speaking of him as if it is Jack he is marrying and not this Elizabeth woman. Luke lets slip that trusting Jack is why Will ended up on the _Dutchman_ to begin with, why Luke himself ended up on the ship, but the angry expression on Will's face mutes him.

He used to be like Will, smitten with the idea of the flamboyant, rum drinking, smirking captain who swaggered into his life with his promises and filled his head with dreams that would never be. Luke wanted to be like him more than anything, but he doesn't know if he can call Jack Sparrow a friend anymore.

* * *

Freedom. He has dreamed about, felt it in the wind ruffling his hair and lost it as water filled his lungs and he was drowning in the Caribbean sea.

It feels like flying. Like a bird taking to the sky and flying further away from the earth. _Free._ He often wondered if that is why Jack became _Jack_ _Sparrow._ If that is how he felt closer to being free. Luke has never asked him. Freedom has never felt that close for him. He could see it in Jack, hears it in the wind in the sails, can sense it in the crashing waters of the sea, but never did he feel it as intimately as Jack feels it; when he and Luke would stand at the helm and talk about their plans for the near future.

Feeling the cold night air on his skin as he gazes at the sails of the _Dutchman,_ in that moment, Luke can grasp a brief measure of that freedom for himself. And the realization hurts, that his freedom is more now than it ever was then, when he was on the Pearl and with Jack. That he had to lose his freedom to be really able to feel it.

* * *

He swallows back the apprehension he feels in his throat, curling his fingers around the dice in his palm, warmed from the heated skin of his hand. The thought of living his life on the ship would've disturbed him, if he had it in him to still give a fuck about it. He sits down on the decaying wood, lips turning down into a frown. The noises coming from the men surrounding him sound half impressed, half amused.

"Look at him!" Koleniko, a man who has amassed lifetimes of servitude with his losses, is smirking at him as if Luke is about to cut of his own arm. "Do you know what you're doing, lad? You pick up these dice and there's no going back."

He blows a puff of air up to his bangs to get them out of his eyes. They are below deck and the water running through the cracks of the floorboards over his head drips onto the back of his neck, sliding coldly down his spine. Luke shivers. A deep breath, and he uncurls his fingers, the dice tumbling from his hand and into the cup. He wouldn't be doing this if he still had something to lose.

 _"_ _Davy Jones._ _"_ The name feels _oppressive_ on his lips, in his mouth, as if uttering the man's name alone could summon him. There is the nervous shuffle of feet and the crash of thunder in the distance, and then silence. All he can hear is his heart beating loudly in his ears. A dead foot drags against the rotting floor, and the Captain of the _Dutchman_ moves out of the shadows. He gives Luke a dark chuckle, a murky sound devoid of emotion.

"What do you want?" he asks.

And Luke answers with "I don't know yet."

* * *

In his sleepless nights, Luke lies near the captain's quarters, listening to the sorrowful sound of music. He feels it like a wave in his chest, sweeping him off his feet and underneath the current of emotion filling his lungs. He doesn't know whether he is dreaming, if he is imagining the sorrow choking him up, wrapping its fingers around his throat and squeezing tight. If the strangled sob emerging past his lips is real.

 _And it isn't his own sadness that he feels, but that doesn't make it any less painful._

It was the desolate end of a desolate story he never understood as a child. The story of a man who fell in love with the sea. Who in his pain put his beating heart into a chest, so he could bury it at an island with no sea reaching its shores, in hopes his pain would be buried along with it. Of a man who stopped loving because he was not loved. A man who forgot love because love had forgotten him.

* * *

In the murk and mist of his night on watch, Luke is faced with an enraged Will Turner.

"You're supposed to be on _our_ side." Distrustful brown eyes are staring at him, the words hushed and dripping silent accusation. The blade of a knife is a pointed at Luke's face. "I don't want to kill you, but I made a promise to free my father. I will find the chest, and I will pierce Jones' heart. It doesn't matter to me that you're a friend of Jack's. I _will_ kill you."

Luke scowls at him. He can taste anger in his mouth, the inside of his cheek bleeding from where he punctured it with the sharpness of his teeth. "His life is not for you to take," he growls. His composure is unwavering, muscles wound tight. " _nor_ is his freedom. I will kill _you_ if you don't give me the key."

He doesn't know why, but suddenly the thought of the man being murdered behind his back makes his breaths come harder. His chest feels constricted. Luke has seen sadness and anger in his eyes, and he knows the man is capable of real emotion. That he is not the cold bastard he shows himself as, and that it had been desperation in his eyes, not spite, as he took Luke on his desk, all frantic movements and barely suppressed force. He still does _feel._

Eyes narrowed, Luke curls his hands into fists. He doesn't want to think about it deeper than he already has. "The key." He motions to it with is chin. "Unless you want to die."

Charged air particles and the scent of sea and sweat has filled the distance between him and Will. Neither of the two men wants to back down. Luke doesn't want to kill Jack's friend, but he can't let him leave with the key. He will take it from him, with violence and with blood if he has to. He grits his teeth–

"Sorry, but I keep my promises."

– and suddenly there is an arm around his throat, pulling him backwards and forcing the air out of him, and all he can do is struggle against the assailant, scratching and digging his nails into the arm restraining him, as Turner makes his escape from the ship with the key around his neck, before he runs out of air and his vision slowly dims to darkness...

* * *

He endures his punishment with his jaw clenched and eyes focused on the blood dripping down his side. It is pathetic how his will fragments under pain, how it turns the spine of his resolve into dust upon coming down on his back, cutting through flesh and muscle and tearing at his old wounds. The sickening crunch of bone as it shatters fills his ears. Blood streams in rivulets down his back. A scream pushes at the back of his clenched teeth and he is shaking violently. _Please believe me–_

Luke's breath comes labored and painful. Would he believe him if Luke told him he had no part in this? He can tell that the Captain knows of how much pain he is causing, just how _deep_ the lashes go.

The fifth lash is the deepest.

He does scream then, his knees giving out from under him and his body colliding with the man standing closest to him. Maccus heaves him onto his shoulder, glancing at his captain for affirmation before dragging Luke to his bunk.

"Why didn't you open your mouth? Could've saved yourself the pain. Yer lucky your arse is still breathin' after that."

Luke can't bring himself to answer him.

* * *

There are stories told among the men that night, of a woman and a man, of love lost at sea, of betrayal, and of a man ruined by grief.

There are whispers among the men of a _chest,_ buried at the _Isla Cruces,_ that would bring about the end of the world. Whispers of a heart, beating inside the chest, which could turn the tides of the sea itself, whispers of the man's love being confined inside the heart, whispers of a quest on dry land to recover the chest, and whispers of the enemy already on its shores.

* * *

As he dives into the sea's undertow, Luke can feel the water glide along his body, the salt irritating the wounds on his back, and he can feel it pull him with the waves onto shore. Maccus is close behind him, as is the rest of the crew. When Luke's feet touch sand, he glances behind him and in the distance glimpses the black sails of the _Pearl._

 _Dammit, Jack._

He marches onto the beach, his clothes drenched and heavy on his frame. Panic is constricting his chest and leaving him breathless, his heart beating frantically against his ribs. There is not a thing Luke can do to stop Jack from stabbing the heart, not when he and Luke are not as close as they used to be, and not when Jack's life is in danger. Luke doesn't know why the older pirate wants the heart, but it can't be good for his Captain.

Bare feet are kicking up sand and _stopping suddenly_ at the sight of the chest, key in the lock and _opened,_ dug up from the earth and terrifyingly _empty_ where the heart should be but _isn't_. Next to him, Maccus is shouting orders to split up. "You stay 'ere. Don't need a wounded, angry lad getting in our way."

And with that he is alone, shocked blue eyes staring at nothing, body collapsing to his knees. _No... No no no no–_ He shakes his head, hands gripping the chest tightly as he looks inside. There are letters, the paper worn through time and the elements, telling of longing and love, and a shred of silk fabric that, for a second, he imagines the smell of a woman and salt clinging to it. He brushes his fingertips over them reverently, the fractions of a life that used to belong to the man he has come to know. Remnants long forgotten.

It doesn't fit into the construct of the man he has created in his mind. There is that feeling of shame in his stomach, that he shouldn't be allowed to see this, shouldn't intrude into the man's life like this. Jones had buried them with pain and sorrow, and Luke feels suddenly angry at the woman in these letters, angry at Jack for digging them up and sticking his hands where they are not wanted. He doesn't think Jones would have wanted for him to see this. He wouldn't have wanted for his past to be dug back up from where he buried it.

There is the sound of metal clashing against metal, and Luke closes the chest, heart sinking, and runs towards it, onto the beach and into the conflict between the crew and the interlopers. There are four of them. The woman, her wild blonde tresses giving away her identity as Elizabeth Swann, is crossing swords with Maccus, and Jack is using the longboat's paddle to push back an enraged Koleniko. Slumped into the boat is an unconscious Will Turner and next to him a man wearing the ragged and filthy uniform of the British Navy.

But Luke only has eyes for Jack.

"Jack!" He wades through the water and to the pirates side. The heart is nowhere in sight. He must have hidden it before Luke showed up. Jack turns to him, the expression on his face a mix between surprised and relieved. The sight of it has his mouth pull into that smile of his he has come to associate with Jack Sparrow.

 _"_ _Luke!_ I thought I'd lost you." He suddenly swings the paddle at him, aiming for his head and Luke jumps back just in time. "I knew you'd come back, love."

He blocks the next swing with his arm, wincing at the pain from the wounds on his back pulling taut, and sidesteps Jack to run for the boat when a hand closes around his arm and hauls him off his feet and into the ankle deep water. He stares up at Jack, and Jack stares at him. "I was under the impression that you and I, I and you, were much closer than this." A wide smile that shows his gold teeth, and black rimmed eyes are laughing at him.

"Fuck you, Jack."

"I will interpret that as you not apologizing for siding with the squid face then?"

"Where is the heart?"

"What heart? I don't know what heart you're talking about."

He pushes himself up and Jack moves back warily. Through the soaked white fabric of his shirt, Luke sees him staring at the dark red lines on his chest, but the guilty expression on his face lasts only for a moment, before he tightens his grip on the paddle. Luke huffs out an angry breath. Fists clenched at his side, he stares at Jack with narrowed blue eyes and the bitter taste of betrayal in his mouth.

"When you pushed me off the ship– I could've _drowned,"_ he whispers, his tone dangerous and Jack's gaze turns soft around the blackened edges. Sympathetic. "I could've drowned, _and you would've let me."_

"Ah, but I knew _he_ would find you, luv." his grin falters when he sees the hurt look on Luke's face.

"You were counting on it."

"Aye," he admits solemnly. "I was."

* * *

He hears the splintering crack of wood as the Kraken takes the _Pearl, and Jack,_ down into the deep blue of the ocean. Can hear his captain's enraged cry at finding the chest to be void of heart, and feels loss bubble up in his lungs until he is nearly drowning in it. _Jack is gone, as is the heart._

And Luke hates himself for mourning his loss, _because he doesn't regret anything. He doesn't regret not forgiving Jack, doesn't regret betraying Jack as Jack betrayed him. He doesn't regret that Jack gone._

When the night darkens and he hears Jones giving out orders, he doesn't know if the faint tremor in the man's voice is real or imagined.

* * *

Cutler Beckett boards the _Dutchman_ with a critical eye, giving a curt nod to the men behind him and then steps forward to declare, "It seems to me that you are _lacking_ the encouragement to do as commanded. _Captain._ _"_

The chest lands at their feet with a heavy thud, and Jones jerks back as if he has been shoved back, as if he can't stand to be near it. At his side, Luke's fingernails are digging into the palm of his hands with the brutal urge to tear Beckett apart with his bare hands. A man with an air of condensation and clean clothing and blue lapels.

"I will break your fucking neck if you don't _piss off."_ he growls at him with barely suppressed rage, and behind him the crew snickers and snarls their agreement.

The man turns to him, unimpressed by Luke's display of aggression. "Ah, yes. Luke _Flynn._ Our mutual friend told me I would have trouble with you." He is smirking at Luke, a knowing smile on his thin lips. Luke doesn't know who he is talking about, _how_ he knows his last name. _Nobody_ knows his last name. Only Jack knew and he is gone, stranded in Davy Jones Locker. "But you're just a _boy,_ trying to fight a war you haven't realized _is not yours to fight."_

His rage smashes through his self control, crashing over him in form of a wave that drowns out his logic. He has closed the distance in seconds, jumping in the air and launching a fist at Beckett's face, when a large hand curls around his wrist and a sharp knee to his stomach sends him skidding backwards on the deck. Turning his head the punch connects solidly with Luke's chin, splitting his lip and filling his mouth with blood. The next comes down on his cheekbone, and so does the next, and the next, and the next.

"That's enough, Lieutenant." Beckett interrupts from the side. "I believe your _son,_ has learned his lesson and will not be causing us more problems in the future. But if he does," and his head snaps up, staring at the man still bending over him with shocked eyes and bile crawling up the back of his throat. "we will simply have to _re enforce_ the lesson until he can not spit any more blood."

Time stops, until the hand bunching the collar of his shirt releases him and he falls back against the floor. His father, clad in navy uniform, steps back into the rank of cadets lined up to the side. He doesn't see his son, staring instead at his bloodied knuckles as if he doesn't know how the blood got there.

Becket is still smiling at him, he is fucking smiling, and Luke more than anything wants to smash in those white teeth and see him choke on them. "You will come to learn that pain builds character, Mr. Flynn."

The chest, on which the cadets are directing their muskets, is put into the captain's quarters while Beckett deboards the _Dutchman_ with the order to stay within arm's reach.

Luke is still lying on is back, swollen, bruised, and dripping blood, when the familiar feel of a tentacle slides over his shoulder. "Ye have a habit of falling into perilous situations, _Mr Flynn._ _"_ Jones murmurs, and to Luke's relief his voice is neither mocking or cruel.

* * *

He has heard the expression; of pain building character. And he knows, more than he will ever admit, that suffering doesn't make you stronger. It doesn't help you, doesn't make you a better man, and doesn't build character. It just _hurts._

* * *

"You don't have to do this." His voice is quiet, dark blonde strands of hair covering the pain visible in his eyes. Jones' touch, when it comes, is disturbingly gentle; tentacles sliding across his jaw and the bruised side of his face, wiping the dried blood from his bottom lip and brushing over the cut on his cheek.

Luke winces at the pain, pulling his head out of Jones' grasp. When he looks at him, those eyes are filled with, not empathy, but understanding, and something Luke himself doesn't understand. It makes him angry, because it it doesn't belong there.

* * *

The memories he has of Jack, he just can't let go of. Luke remembers the smile Jack used to give him when he told him of his adventures; a wide smile with gold teeth and dimpled cheeks. He still doesn't know if he ever meant anything to Jack Sparrow, but he remembers a time when he thought he did...

 _"_ _But I wanna go with you!"_

 _"_ _Sorry, lad, but it would be terribly irresponsible of me to let you come along." The look on his face tells young Luke that he is not that sorry at all. "Besides, it is dangerous for a small child such as yourself. Ask me again when you can reach me shoulder and I promise I'll think about it, alright?"_

 _"_ _I'm not that small..." Disappointed, Luke's blue eyes fill with tears as the older pirate pats him on the head and crosses the deck of the Pearl, leaving Luke on his own. He wouldn't be long, he had told him, but Luke feels panic crawl up his throat at the sight of Jack's retreating back. Jack is leaving him, and he isn't coming back. He is alone again._

 _"_ _Jack!"_

 _The man looks back at him and, seeing the tears on the boys face he curses to himself and comes back. "Ah... please don't cry," He mutters hastily, hands moving about as if he doesn't know where to put them. "Why are you crying?!"_

 _"_ _You're abandoning me." Luke chokes out in between sobs, clutching at the sleeve of Jack's coat and hiding his eyes. The older pirate looks at him with an expression of understanding on his face. Jack Sparrow is not as simpleminded as he likes to let on, he is good at guessing, and he knows enough about the boy that he can put all the insubstantial pieces together and come up with an idea as to why Luke would think that he would abandon him._

 _"_ _Tell you what, you can have me hat while I'm gone" He puts his hat onto the boy's blonde head and tentatively wipes at the tears running down his face with both his thumbs. "and I promise on my title as Captain, that I'll be back before the sun is up and not a moment later. How is that? Better?"_

 _The tears stop, to his relief, and the child stares up at him with adoringly blue eyes. He has never seen eyes blue as them, and the genuine smile he gives him makes Luke smile. "Promise?"_

 _"_ _Aye. I promise."_

* * *

His clothes are soaked, sticking uncomfortably to his skin as the rain pours down on him. The deafening clap of thunder sends a shiver down his spine, and through the gray mist Luke's eyes find those of his captain; his gaze intense in comparison with Jones' own flat eyes gazing back at him.

Most nights the Captain stands at the helm, where he stares out at the sea with the saddest of eyes and his fingers curled so tightly around the wheel that the wood creaks in protest. It fills Luke with pity, knowing _why._ Lately, he has been alternating between angry and sad, and Luke can imagine the storm of emotions raging in the hollow of Jones' chest at having his heart in close proximity.

His eyes watch the tentacles tense and reach for _him._ Not touching, but _wanting_ to touch him, and the realization trickling into the crevice of his foundation sends a wave of heat through him that rushes to the molten spot in his chest where his heart is supposed to be. _You're lonely..._

He is alone, looks utterly lost, and seeing the conflict on his face, his internal struggle of whether to reach out to Luke, he closes his eyes and walks away.

* * *

Under the glow of the lantern, he eyes the bottle of rum warily before taking a small sip and coughing at the burn in his throat. Maccus laughs at him, as do the rest of the crew gathered here after the men of the Royal Navy have long gone. The night is alive with bursts of laughter and rum soaked hollers. "You don't drink, do you?"

"I don't like the taste." He takes a second sip, longer than the last, and passes the bottle on. It tastes strongly of caramel and coconut, the flavor spreading on his tongue and sliding down his throat. It reminds him of sitting in the captain's quarters with Jack and sharing a bottle between the two of them. "Jack used to call it _liquid courage."_

"You and Sparrow were close?" Maccus asks, and Luke can feel Jones' eyes on him at that, burning into his back. He feels embarrassed to have let the detail slip, but his lips still form into a smirk.

"Aye." He nods and holds out his hand for the bottle. After swallowing a mouthful of the dark liquid and feeling it pool warmly in his stomach, heating him from the inside out, he turns his head to offer the drink to Jones. The man arches a brow at him, lips sealing around the mouth piece of his pipe, sucking in and puffing out a cloud of smoke through the flaring siphon at his neck. But he doesn't take the drink.

"The Capt'n's taste be running towards sherry, lad." Maccus drawls at his side and Luke shrugs and hands the bottle to him. He has never really had the chance to taste sherry, there wasn't on the _Pearl,_ and briefly he imagines sharing a bottle of sherry with the captain at the helm like he and Jack used to do. The image has his cheeks flush a dark red.

Luke watches the bottle come full circle again and grabs a hold of it, pressing it to his lips and gulping half of the bottle on his own. "Don't like the taste, eh?" It spills down his chin and runs along the column of his throat, over his chest and the muscles of his stomach, and when he opens his eyes, the Captain is staring at him. Blue eyes are focused on him and Luke tongues the corner of his mouth to lick at the rum there, gazing back through half lidded eyes. _What are you going to do?_

Clearing his throat, Jones walks up to his side with a harsh sound of his leg and grabs the bottle out of Luke's hands. The expression on his face should have shaken him, but all he feels is a sense of smugness when he recognizes the source of that violent energy. "Ye have had enough, Mr. Flynn."

 _"_ _Ey!_ _"_ There is a round of laughter from the crew at his complaint. Maccus claps him onto the shoulder and Luke's lips form into the indication of a smile.

This isn't the _Pearl,_ where he used to be happy and free. Where he could trust Jack to have his back and where there was no bloodshed and no whip lashes on his back. The Black Pearl is gone, as is Jack, and he can't recede that. He can't throw that aside and just forget about it.

He can't, but he has started to.

* * *

Jack is alive.

Elizabeth Swann tells him this when she and her crew are shown to the brig. _Captain_ Swann, as she calls herself. She has been through a lot, Luke can tell from her slumped shoulders, her tired brown eyes and the powder burn on her cheek. He represses the urge to ask her the flood of questions on his tongue, _how did Jack escape the Locker, where is he and is he okay,_ and focuses on to the sound of gunfire instead, the Navy cadets running across the Dutchman's deck, and the thickness of the black smoke coming from the smoldering wreck of Sao Feng's flagship.

* * *

He has his father's lips. A heart shaped mouth that speaks with such anger that for a second, he doesn't recognize himself.

 _"_ _Why?_ You knew I was your son!" The words fall from his mouth, terse and quiet, as he stands in the quarters where the heart is being kept, where he gave himself to Davy Jones and fell apart in his hands. For a second he considers grabbing the chest and running as fast as he can. He could do it; he doesn't need the key as long as the heart is inside.

And he would have done it, if it wasn't for the cadets standing watch outside. He can't outrun a shot to the back.

His father is staring passively at the healing bruises on his face. When he answers, his voice is as quiet as Luke's own. "You've grown," He alternates between wringing his hands and clenching them into fists, rubbing at his stubbled chin and then turning his back to Luke. He doesn't look at him, the sight of the dark purple bruises and the cut on his cheek too real. "from when I saw you last..."

He notices that his father touches his face when he is trying not to cry, eyes swimming. His gaze wavers, and then tears are spilling over the edges of Luke's blue eyes. _"When–"_ His voice is thick with anger when he speaks. _"–_ _when did you start caring?_ When did you start giving a fuck about me? Because you didn't care when you abandoned me or when you were beating me bloody." He is breathing hard, shouting at him with the anger he feels raging in his chest. "You're not my father. You never will be. You were never there when I needed you!"

His throat feels tight. He wipes angrily at the tears that are flowing down his face, staring at the sodden floorboards instead of his father. If he is disappointed by the heavy silence that follows his outburst, he doesn't show it. He turns abruptly, heading to leave when he hears him; "This war... It isn't worth dying for, Luke. Leave." A glance to the side, the man's face is impassive as he looks at him. "You'll die if you don't."

He can't help the laugh bubbling up his throat. A hollow sound that reverberates in his throat.

 _"_ _I'm not afraid to die."_

* * *

Anger is the taste of copper. Of the warm blood flowing from the cut on his bottom lip, and the salt of his tears still wet on his face.

The spectrum of virulent emotions inside him, from blinding anger to burning hatred; there is so much rage coursing through his veins, he could tear his father apart with the force of it alone, beat him half to death and scream at him; _Look at me! I was seventeen and I was alone. Look how young I was with my pain. Look how it turned me inside out..._ Anger is scraping its tongue across the crevices of his heart. He wants to cry, wants to rant and rage and wants– _He wants–_

With no one to hear, he lets out a choked sob, body shaking with the intensity of his anger. His fingers clutch so hard that the wood splinters and indents form under his nails. He stands alone at the helm, resting his head in his arms. He doesn't hear the harsh steps behind him.

"Just when I thought ye could not be more _sentimental."_

"At least I still _do_ feel." he mutters and wipes angrily at his tear stained cheeks. It takes all of his self control to keep his anger wound up inside, to not have his hands shape themselves into fists, because he is suddenly furious; at Jones for cutting out his own heart and burying it, for not _feeling_ when Luke has to feel so intensely, for criticizing him when it is his heart in the chest and not Luke's. He suddenly can't stand to feel anything.

"And where has that gotten you?"

Then there is no more self control; with an angry snarl he turns around and shoves hard at Jones' chest. _"_ _You cut out your heart because you were afraid!"_

He is slammed against the railing violently enough to force the air out of his lungs. Jones's hand is holding his throat, his leg pressing between Luke's own, pinning him there. He can _hear_ the blood pulsing erratically through his body, uncontrollable rage surging through his bloodstream. They are standing so closely together that when Luke takes a breath, his chest presses against Jones' own. Shocked blue eyes stare at him.

 _"_ _You. You make me feel,_ _"_ The hand at his throat slides along his jaw, thumb pressing against his lips, parting them to swipe over the cut on his lip. _"You make me feel, and you will suffer for it–!"_ Impulsively, Luke closes his lips around Jones' thumb and watches the shudder that passes through his body. But it isn't that, or the wretchedness on Jones' face that softens Luke's features, but the long drowned feelings resurfacing in his eyes.

Jones' thumb slips out of his mouth, a string of saliva connecting them, and he feels arousal well up in him and leak a damp spot onto his pants. He is hoisted onto the railing then, Jones' hand under the back of his thighs and the tentacle of his index hastily stripping him of his pants. It happens faster than he can stomach. He pulls him closer, hiding his face in the man's shoulder and squeezing his eyes shut as he presses against the tight muscle of Luke's ass.

There is a second long pause in which Jones digs his fingers into his hips, enough to form bruises, curling a tentacle around his length and giving it a slow squeeze that has Luke exhale through his mouth, before he pushes into him. Jones' cock fills him and his muscles clench to keep him in as he pulls out, slick with his substance– only to slam back in harder. A choked gasp, and his eyes open to see the translucent liquid gathered at the slit of his cock spill over and drip down onto the tentacle stroking him back and forth.

"Capt'n– _hah...hah...hah..."_ The syllables come out in a pained moan as Jones' violently thrusts into him, with force enough it feels as if he will split Luke in half with the thickness of his cock, sliding deeper into him until their bodies are pressed flush together. A glance up and he stares into lust filled eyes, black pupils swallowing up the blue of Jones' irises. His heart gives a loud thump. "You l– _ngh!"_

Hips slam against hips and he is thrusting in deep and fast, with Luke panting, convulsing and clenching around him. The noises he makes are as desperate as the fingers digging into Jones' shoulders, his bared skin covered in sweat, and just when he feels about to burst the hand on his hip grips the base of his cock to keep him from coming. Jones' thumb slides over the head, ruddy from having been overstimulated, and Luke whimpers at the feel of it. He clutches at the ragged material of Jones coat, hips jerking into his grip.

"I want to hear ye beg for it, _Mr. Flynn._ _"_ He slips out of him and Luke breathes out an angry growl, punching a fist against Jones' chest. He tightens his grip on him in retaliation and Luke blindly reaches down, grabbing a hold of Jones' own cock to give him a firm stroke. Luke can feel him tense, like he has never been touched before and his mouth finds the junction of Jones' neck and shoulder, underneath all of the tentacles, pressing his lips against the unprotected flesh.

The trembling breath leaving Jones' mouth is a sound that is too human, and with an open mouthed kiss against his throat Luke inhales the scent of bitter salt and sea. It clings to the mottled skin, Jones' breath and the collar of his coat, and Luke will be able to smell it long after he's gone. As he will remember Jones' choked moans and grunts.

His cock rubs against Luke's own, both flushed and glistening from the combined movement. A breath into Luke's hair, and he slaps his hand away.

 _"_ _Enough."_ Jones' reclaims control of the situation and slams into him with brutal force, their bodies colliding hard and fast. There is the sound of skin slapping against skin between them and Luke moans at the pleasure coiling in his groin, his sense of equilibrium gone as Jones fucks him, slams inside of him and tears him open. Luke comes in a mess of sobbing moans, hands fisted into the man's coat and chest heaving.

The relief from Jones is strong enough that he can sense it brush along his damp skin. Instead of pulling out, he leans over Luke, their breaths sounding harsh between them, and brushes a strand of blonde hair out of his eyes. In his chest, Luke's heart is beating erratically against his ribs.

"This means _nothing."_

* * *

Love.

You feel it in your chest, as if your heart is slowly drowning in the undercurrents of a flood. As if you're being swept away and the water is slowly choking the life out of you. But you're drunk on it, you're delusional. You can't protect yourself if you're in love.

Luke never knew love could be so violent.

But desire isn't love, it's not a affliction of the heart, and it shouldn't make him feel like this. Like he can't breathe. Jones is not his friend. He isn't his lover. Not his partner. He is just a man who doesn't know _how to feel._ He doesn't love Luke, but he needs to be loved. Their encounter that night has shown that. And Luke could love him. He knows he could.

 _He does._

* * *

A soft whimper from a trembling mouth and blue eyes widen as they watch the blood spill from the wound. All he feels is the sharp pain in his chest as the blade cuts through flesh and muscle, cutting so deep he is in to the wrist. The blood spreads through the thin material of his shirt and clings to his skin, coppery and warm and wet.

When he does hold his heart in his hands, blood slipping through his fingers, he can't tell if the pain is gone, or if he just can no longer feel it.

* * *

He can't do this on his own and the question, when asked, sounds too loud in his own ears.

"Will you help me?"

He doesn't _want_ help, hasn't needed to ask for it his whole life and he told himself that he wasn't going to in the near future– But he isn't doing this for himself and it doesn't matter how much he wants to do this on his own. He can't. But he is doing it for love, as foolish and sentimental as it sounds, and that makes swallowing his anger and facing his father more bearable.

"Why?" And Luke has been dreading this question. He has tried to tell himself that it doesn't matter what his father thinks of him. "Why do this for him? He doesn't deserve that goodness which is in your heart, son. Your life is more precious than his."

 _"_ _Will you help me?"_ He doesn't want to think about this. He can't think about this, because if he does, he will turn his back and run again. Because as much as he want to do this, he doesn't want to die. He doesn't have time to think about this either. He knows what he's asking of his father and what will happen to him when Beckett finds out, and he doesn't care.

"If you care about me then help me. _Please."_

* * *

It is pathetic; that muscle the size of his fist gathered to his own chest, hearing and feeling it throb against his skin. How fragile it sounds, this heart in the palm of his hand trying to beat away its pain, to keep on living, to hold on for life.

He has never heard a sound so pitiful.

* * *

He is drenched and bleeding from a cut on his arm, dirty blond tresses dripping wet as the rain pours down on him. In the center of the chaos his blue eyes focus on the chest in Jack's grip and his heart sinks with the knowledge that nothing Luke can do will make him understand.

"Please. Don't." He pleads with him, letting his desperation bleed into his tone and the sword slip from his fingers. _"_ _Jack."_

"Why do _you_ not want me to?" He asks, eyeing Luke with mistrustful brown eyes. His feet are rooted to the deck of the _Dutchman,_ but his hand is curled tightly around the rope. He doesn't understand him, how can he when he has never been in love. He wouldn't recognize the panic in Luke's eyes. The desperation in his movements as he dives for the chest and punches a bloodied fist in Jack's face. How can he know when Luke has never told him. His fist collides with the pirates jaw, but he only stumbles back, still gripping the chest. "What did _he_ do to you?"

How convoluted his life has become. He has smashed and broken his whole life apart for a man who will never know what Luke has done for him. For a man who will forget about him. He has given his last breath to him. He has lost Jack.

Luke laughs then, hard enough for it to sound like sobbing. The tide of emotions confined in his chest, it floods the dam of his consciousness and drowns him from within. _Violently,_ the water crashes over him. _"_ _You don't understand!"_ He yells, so loud he thinks his lungs will collapse. "If I looked you in the eyes and told you what I've done, _you wouldn't understand."_ And a part of Luke wants to tell him. Wants to make Jack understand. He is the closest thing to a father Luke has ever had. His voice is hoarse when he whispers; "Just– tell me you'll still love me. No matter what."

He sees the moment Jack's face contorts with slow realization, and the sight of it nearly breaks him.

 _"_ _Luke, what have you done?"_

* * *

The thing about life is you don't realize how much you want to life until you're dying. You don't realize how desperately you wanted to be loved, how desperately you wanted to be alive to change things, and how it was that desperation that ended your life...

* * *

As he feels the blood running through his fingers, he realizes with a pained exhale of breath, that he is _terribly_ and utterly alone...

He coughs violently and chokes for air as blood pumps up his throat and fills his mouth. Copper. A taste like that is hard to forget. It trickles into the cavity of the heart beating in his chest, _not his heart,_ and, through the tears filling his eyes he can barely see the knife buried in _his_ heart, the shocked expression of Will Turner.

Pain pulls him under, down, down into unconsciousness. His chest heaves with the panicked breaths filling his lungs, spluttering, the blood that bubbles up his throat painting his teeth. His hands try to shove back in the blood spilling from the wound. He is dying in slow motion, _and suddenly he can't can't breathe, he fucking can't breathe and he is drowning in his own blood, alone, and death feels like a grip on his ankle dragging him deeper into nothingness. He is so afraid..._

He lies there motionless, in a dark pool of his own blood, feeling the rain wash the dark rivulets off his skin when relief washes over him as he feels the touch of a hand on his skin, resting where the blood streams to keep him from spilling out on the edges.

"Where– ?"

Luke grabs the man's hand with his own and guides it to the center of his chest, mouth shaping into a smile the moment Jones' eyes widen with realization. Both can feel the thumping of the heart beneath his skin, unharmed, alive, a slow beat that only Luke can hear in his ears.

Jones stares at him, blue eyes tracing over their linked fingers and the jagged scar on his chest, from the bloodied column of his throat to his trembling lips. He looks at Luke as if he doesn't understand what happened to him.

"Sorry... I couldn't–... I'm sorry..." Jones' hand cradles his face, a tentacle brushing back the strands of blonde hair. He had broken him, not with force, but with gentleness. And Luke had let him. He had given his life to protect him. Empathy had done this to him. "I can't– ... don't let me die... alone..." His arm twitches, and then he covers his face, hiding his eyes. _"_ _Don't leave."_

But the thumb wiping at the corner of his mouth keeps him from feeling anything but alone. He lets out a barely audible whimper, and when Luke looks into his eyes there is the gloss of unshed tears in Jones' gaze...

 _I wanted you to live._

* * *

In the darkness, the blackness of the world he comes to, the air he breathes into his lungs smells like _him._

He doesn't know where he is, if he is in the Locker, if he only imagines the virulent scent of salt and the sea– _of him_ – but it envelops Luke, pulling him deeper into the void. He has come to love that scent. Gathering it close, he breathes it in and tucks it into the hollow of his chest where he will always remember it...

* * *

 **A/N–** There is a part two, but it is from Jones' perspective, not Luke's. The after, in between, and ending to the story. If there is anyone interested then let me know. Thanks so much for reading :)


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